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then held out its hand. “Mr. Lockwood?” it asked. “I’m Mrs. Simone, Sally Alexis’ mother.”
    â€œ Oh! ” he exclaimed after a startled silence. “Yes, Mrs. Simone—Sally has spoken of you. I’m honored.”
    â€œTo say nothing of flabbergasted?”
    â€œWell, surprised, I admit, but pleasantly.”
    â€œI should have phoned, and would have, except I wasn’t sure you’d see me, and so, to head off a brush, I barged.”
    â€œI’m certainly delighted you did.”
    â€œAt least it’s nice of you to say so.”
    By now he had got his door open again and ushered her in. Her reaction to the living room was much like Sally’s. And while she marched herself around, taking in various things, he stood taking her in, with more of an eye to detail than had been possible out in the hall. He noted the smart hang of the taffeta dress, and the Continental look of the matching stole that was flung over one shoulder after a turn on her neck. He noted the crimson accessories, of the exact shade to bring up her iron-gray hair. He noted the fresh, handsome face, with large hazel eyes. But most of all he noted the “figure to write home about,” a slim, sinuous thing of no more than medium size, but voluptuous in every curve. “That dress,” he said quickly when she caught him looking at her, “if it was done in dark blue, would be the Portico hostess uniform.”
    â€œIt’s the original of the Portico hostess uniform,” she said, a bit tartly. “I designed it myself. And I wasn’t too pleased, I can tell you, when Bunny Granlund saw it and thought it was just the thing for the Portico girls to wear. I wasn’t too pleased, but it means business to the store—to Fisher’s, where I work—and I get a royalty, too, so I don’t say too much about it. In the meantime I wear it, as is. ”
    â€œIt’s lovely. Simple—and beautiful.”
    She thanked him and continued her tour of inspection. Then suddenly: “Why this?” she asked. “Why Mexico?”
    â€œWell, why not?” he parried.
    â€œIt seems a bit odd somehow. In Maryland.”
    â€œIt’s a long story. I got into meat and then thought I should learn more about it. So I bought a bunch of books, among them one called The King Ranch, that I heard really went into it. It did, all right, but went into other things too, like Texas history, the Mexican War, and that stuff. It cleared up all kinds of things for me, like why they fought that war. Why we did was no mystery at all: we just helped ourselves to a strip of desert down there, for no good reason at all except to make a prettier map, and because the Rio Grande was longer than the Nueces and made a nicer-looking boundary. But why would they fight us? It was because it just so happened that this strip of worthless desert also included a harbor, the one at Punta Isabella, inside the Brazos Santiago—the only good one they had north of Veracruz. No one is quite sure that we even knew it was there. So that’s why they went to war, and I don’t blame them one bit. When I got through with that book, I was hooked on Mexico, and my hat was off to the writer. His name is Tom Lea, and you never heard of him but—”
    â€œI? Never heard of Tom Lea?”
    She seemed dumbfounded, and pointing to a drawing of a horse surrounded by cactus, said: “That is a Tom Lea—or I’m crazy. Peering close, she added: “Yes—it’s signed.”
    â€œOh. He’s an artist too—as you are.”
    â€œNot in his class— but I’m working .”
    He said he admired the ads she did for Fisher’s, and she seemed pleased, but got back insistently to him. “Why meat?” she wanted to know.
    â€œWell, once again, why not?”
    â€œIt doesn’t match up, or doesn’t seem to anyhow. With these things, this place, or